


kill me, kill me, kill me: as said by connor

by castielanderson



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Canon Suicide, Drug Abuse, M/M, Overdosing, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:50:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2657702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielanderson/pseuds/castielanderson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The irony of Connor lying to Oliver is that it doesn't stay a lie for very long.  Connor starts abusing his Adderall in the face of his guilt, and it all goes downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kill me, kill me, kill me: as said by connor

**Author's Note:**

> my friends and i totally thought connor was gonna say the line and here we are

After being questioned by the police, Connor goes home and takes an entire bottle of Adderall.  Then he's sticking his fingers down his throat and puking up as much as he can, counting each and every pill that falls into the toilet.  His phone is ready to dial nine-one-one for an hour afterward as he lies curled up on his side in bed, a bucket on the floor next to him.  He falls extremely dizzy and he worries his brain might burst for awhile, but no other damage is done except for the fact that Connor keeps learning what he's capable of.  And some of it is terrifying.

_

The lie slips off of his silver tongue with ease, because he knows it's so far from the truth.  He's smoked in the past, and he enjoys drinking, and yes he's on medication for anxiety, but law school required his mind to be clear.  Being an accomplice to murder doesn't, and that's why Connor starts taking triple his Adderall dose. 

_

When it comes out that Sam was the one who murdered Lila Stangaard, nobody suspects that his bones are being compacted into garbage blocks.  Almost everyone assumes he's on the run, and the others think he committed suicide.  No matter how you slice it, Sam Keating a self-saving asshole and not a victim.

There is zero evidence that any of them had anything to do with the disappearance and possible death of Sam Keating, but Connor still lies awake at night while his veins buzz and his stomach churns until his eyes can't stay open any longer and he's thrust into a nightmare-filled sleep.

_

After his confession that isn't a confession but some kind of cruel self-fulfilling prophecy, Oliver calls him daily.  At first Connor didn't want to keep up the lie, but now it isn't a lie and he can barely get through a single, miniscule thought about the person he's become.  He knows he'll have to answer questions, that Oliver will want to know why and how, but Connor can't give him that information.

It takes two weeks for him to answer Oliver's calls, and Oliver is _pissed_.

 _"Connor, what the fuck?  I've been worried sick.  After a scare like that, how could you just ignore me?  I've been sitting here for weeks wondering what the hell is going on - is he just being an asshole like usual, or did he overdose?  Is he in a hospital right now, and why won't he tell me?_ "

"I'm fine, Oliver," Connor sighs, and he really would be if he wasn't so stupid and if he hadn't roped Oliver into this mess.  He's thankful Oliver believes his story, but Oliver isn't the kind of person to back down  and he's going to push and push and push at Connor until he agrees to let Oliver in, and neither of them can afford that.

_"No, you're not.  You're not fine, and you made that pretty clear that night.  And I'm really, really angry at you, Connor, but that doesn't mean I don't care.  I want to help you.  You just have to let me."_

"You shouldn't - " Connor starts and doesn't know where he's going.  "You shouldn't have to deal with this, Oliver.  You don't deserve to have this kind of shit on your shoulders."

Oliver is quiet for a long moment, and Connor sits terrified, waiting for him to either beginning shouting or hang up on him without another word.  His stomach writhes in knots, and Connor considers hanging up.  But none of those things happen.

_"I don't deserve to have someone I care about die on me, either."_

Pressure bursts behind Connor's eyes and his windpipe swells shut.  He's barely able to choke out, "I'm not going to die, Oliver.  I'm okay.  It's a problem, but it's not unsolvable."

_"I'm here for you, Connor.  Please don't forget that."_

Connor already has when he replies, "Okay."

_

Connor fools himself into thinking he can control it, thinking that if he can self-prescribe himself three times his Adderall dosage, he can make himself come back down, too.  In reality, it doesn't stop with the Adderall.  It doesn't even stop with the excess drinking or the cigarettes he picks up from the gas station down the block from his apartment.

The Keating Five are working a case.  Just three weeks later, and they're working a case and it's just like before with Annelise pushing them to their limits and letting them crash in her study using books and stacks of files as pillows.  Wes naps on his the couch, Laurel curls up in the corner surrounded by work, and Connor makes himself coffee.  The only difference is that he puts a shot of vodka in it before he returns to the room. 

(Though it's hard to keep it hidden when he's constantly in Michaela's face and she replies by telling him to get away from her because his breath reeks of alcohol - at ten in the morning no less.  She gives him a weird look when he backs off, and if Connor was sober, he would think that she looks concerned, but he's not and she doesn't say anything more so they go back to their work.)

Today, he's running late.  He's in the dark of some guy's apartment on a bare, creaky mattress that pulses with the stench of weed, and he rams himself inside this guy until it hurts, until his thighs are cramping and his can't feel his toes, and the irony of it all is that he has to force himself to come by thinking of Oliver and even when he does, it's not impressive.  The guy doesn't care.  He's in pure bliss, and he kisses Connor on the cheek before Connor locks himself in the bathroom to freshen up and pluck the guy's Klonopin from the medicine cabinet.

On his way out, Connor hears, "We should do this again sometime."  He smiles and says something coy over his shoulder, the medication a beating heart in the bottom of his bag.

Asher, out of jealousy probably, and Laurel, out of irritation, glare at Connor when he steps into the office twenty minutes late.  He ignores them and drops to an open spot on the couch, careful not to rustle the bottles of pills as he pulls his work from his bag.

_

They're in the middle of court when Asher sniffs several times in Connor's direction and then leans over to him and whispers, "Dude, when did you start smoking?"

 Connor looks back at him with his eyebrows knitted together, not entirely sure he heard right.  Annelise is currently speaking - they should be paying attention.  Asher has never been one to monitor Connor's substance intake.  All he ever cared about was how much dick Connor was getting compared to how much pussy Asher scored.  Why does he care if Connor started smoking cigarettes?

Connor shrugs and turns his attention back to Annelise, "A few weeks ago."

Asher gapes at him.  "You bought like five packs at the gas station on the way here, and your cologne, is like, buried in the smell of it."

"Yeah, I know.  I should have gotten more but I didn't have enough money on me."

"Dude, seriously?"

Connor glares at him, blood growing hot.  "What?"

"Are you going to smoke all those cigarettes today?"

"Today and tomorrow," Connor huffs.  "Who cares?"

Asher scoffs and shakes his head in disbelief.  "Are you sure you started smoking three weeks ago?  That came on pretty quick."

Connor just stares at him for a long, silent moment.  "Shut up, Asher."

Asher sniffs again.  "Dude, is that pot?"

Connor stands up, walks to the end of the row, and sits down next to Michaela.  She's too buried in the case and she'll leave him alone if he's lucky.  Asher watches him all the way, and when Connor's ass hits the chair, he flips Asher off from the cover of his lap.

_

The next case they take is a hard one.  Again, they stay up several nights looking for any shred of evidence they can use in the defense, and almost everyone crashes the third night in.  Except Connor.  He's taken at least twenty pills in the last five hours and he's chugging down coffee and vodka on the side.  (He didn't necessarily take the pills to drink the vodka to stay awake, but being high helps with that, too).  He has to be the one to save this case.  He hasn't done shit for a long time and the more he goes without helping the less he becomes an asset to the team, and if he's not on this team, he has nothing to get up for in the morning.

Laurel wakes up around four in the morning, when Connor has just started looking through another chunk of files.  She blinks like sandpaper and claws at the hair plastered to her sweaty face.  Her eyes don't really seem to take in anything as she looks around, but then she spots him.

"Connor?  How long have you been up?  Have you slept at all?"

Connor shakes his head.  "Not in seventy-four hours."

"What? How - ?"

"Adderall and coffee," Connor replies.  He doesn't think he needs to mention the Klonopin or the vodka.

Laurel makes a worried noise, yet sinks back into her spot, eyelids flittering.  "Don't overdo it.  Annelise needs us to be alive to work."

"Don't worry," Connor says.  "I'm good, I promise.  It's totally cool, Laurel.  Go back to sleep."

"Are you sure?  Is there coffee left?  I can - "

"Seriously, it's fine," Connor says, but his knee is bouncing and his hands are shaking and he's starting to feel absurdly light-headed.  He knows he's just high, but it's a weird kind of high.  Maybe he shouldn't have had that five hour energy drink two hours ago.

"Okay," Laurel mumbles, and Connor hears her snores again within minutes.

_

Connor thinks he's got it, but then it turns out that the defendant was sleeping with the victim, not his sister, and of course _, of course_ , not only did Connor overlook a detail, but Annelise has to ask if he slept with the defendant because if the defendant is gay that means Connor must have fucked him.  Except he didn't.  He stayed up two nights in a row looking for information that wasn't there and now Annelise is going to throw him under the bus.

Everyone snickers when Annelise finishes her rant and storms out of the room, and Connor excuses himself to the bathroom.  He can feel the shame rising in his veins, his jagged heart pumping it throughout his body.  He dares to look at himself in the mirror and feels the urge to vomit.  He fucked up.  He fucked up so bad, and that's all he can think about.  All he ever does is fuck up.  He lost Oliver, he made Paxton kill himself, he helped kill Sam Keating.

Panic crawls around inside his skin, and Connor reaches into his bag for the bottles of pills.  He pulls out Klonopin and pours out a large handful.  It's a lot more than he's used to, but he doesn't realize until he's sweating and swaying on the floor of Annelise's study.  He throws himself upward and races to the bathroom where his knees hit the shag rug and he throws up into the toilet.  It hits him then like the bullet he's not sure he wants in his head, that he's overdosed again, and he presses his fingers down his throat just like he did the night after the murder.

Fifteen minutes after locking himself in the bathroom, there's a knock.

"Dude, you okay?"

Connor groans.  "I'm fine - go away, Asher."

"I can hear you barfing, man."

_"I'm fine."_

It takes a minute, but Connor can hear when Asher walks away, his expensive Italian shoes clacking against the hardwood.  He leans his head against the cool of the porcelain and exhales slowly.  He's puked up a lot of pills, and he hopes it's enough to bring him down to his tolerance.  He wouldn't really have cared if he had died, but he can't die on the bathroom floor of Annelise Keating's office.  One too many people have already died in this house.

Another knock sends Connor's head upward, and he groans again, louder.

"Asher - "

"It's Michaela."

He hangs his head, shutting his eyes and imagining he's anywhere else.

"Wha' do you wan'?"

"Connor, let me in."

"Why?  So you can - can laugh at my pain?"  His hand slips against the side of the toilet, and he grabs at it tighter

"No, Connor - because you're violently ill and slurring your words and I know you've been drinking too much lately, and I'm scared."

"Bullshi - " Connor mumbles.  His head is starting to float,  and the inside of the bathroom swims in his eyes.  "You don' give a shit about me.  Neither does an'one else."

"Connor, open the door or I'm having Asher kick it in."

A heavy sigh leaves Connor's lips.  He attempts to stand up, but falls to the floor immediately, and opts instead to crawl to the door.  His hands shake and his fingers feel weird.  It takes him a good few tries to unlock the door, and when he does, he falls eagerly back on his ass.

The door flies open and slams against the stop.  Then Michaela's on the floor in front of him, gripping his face in her hands.  She feels for his carotid pulse, and when she's satisfied with that, presses her ear close to his mouth and listens to him breathe.  He stutters a little, but is otherwise okay.

"Connor, are you dizzy?"

"Yeah."

"Nauseous, obviously?"

"No shit."

"Connor, what did you take?  I know you've taken something, so please tell me.  Your breathing is irregular and your heart skipped a beat."

Michaela's face blurs in front of him.  She looks so serious, and Connor finds it ridiculous.  "I have a murmur."

"Tell me what you took, or I'm calling the police."

"No - Michaela - "

"Tell me."

"Pills."

"What kind?"

"Ativan."

"Where are they?"

"In my bag."

"Asher, grab his bag."

"No," Connor protests.  He grabs for his bag, but misses by a mile.  Instead, he rams into Asher and his bag crashes to the floor, spilling out all four bottles of pills - Adderall, Ativan, Klonopin, and Valium - and a couple of empty cigarette packs.

"Connor," Michaela breathes.  "God - you're  going to kill yourself like this."

Connor throws his head back.  "Maybe.  Maybe I don't care."

_Maybe I want to._

A shaking hand wipes at Michaela's eye, and for a second, Connor actually believes she might be crying, but the idea is too laughable.  She hates Connor.  She wouldn't care if he died.  None of them would.

"Alright, I'm taking you to the hospital."

"No!" Connor all but shouts.  "Michaela, please - no.  I can't - no one can know about this, please.  I - I puked up a ton of the pills.  I'm okay.  I'm just - I'm tired.  I haven't slept in three days."

Michaela and Asher exchange a look. 

"Alright," she says.  "Annelise has a spare bedroom.  We'll put you there."

_

Connor sleeps the entire night.  The whole day has left him exhausted, and the pillow underneath his head is so welcoming.  Even though he's completely out of it, he does notice that someone is constantly at his bedside.  First it's Michaela with her almost-medical degree, then it's Asher, with his wide, sad eyes and lack of ability to take care of anyone and the idea is so funny that Connor sighs a laugh in his sleepy state.

In the morning, he thanks the two of them and leaves the office with his usual swagger, partially convinced himself that he's okay.

_

Two days later, Wes finds him in the kitchen, making coffee.  He's just about to pull the flask out of his bag when footsteps echo behind him.  Connor brings the mug up to his lips and sips.  It's so much sweeter without alcohol, but not nearly as satisfying.

Wes approaches him with hesitance.

"How - how are feeling today, Connor?"

Connor takes another sip.  "Fine."

"Is your - how's your stomach?"  Wes scratches at his nonexistent stubble.

Connor chews at his lip before answering.  The muscles around his neck tense up and lungs twitch behind his ribs.  "It's fine."

Wes rubs his neck and sighs.  "Connor, I just - I wanted to say - "

"Oh, God," Connor mutters, and his hand itches for the flask.

"I just - I don't really know how to say this but I want to let you know that you're not alone.  I - when I was - my mom killed herself when I was young, and - "

"Oh, fuck off, Wes," Connor sighs as he stirs his coffee with the spoon protruding from his mug.  "I'm not going to kill myself, and I don't need your pity."  He walks away without a glance in Wes' direction.

"Connor - "

"Save your breath, Waitlist."

_

Six weeks after the murder, Oliver shows up at his doorstep.  It's seven am, and Oliver's dressed in running clothes.  All of this feels so familiar, yet extremely uncomfortable.  Connor blinks through the sleep in his eyes and stares at Oliver.

"What are you doing, here?" he croaks.

"Michaela called me, and - "

Connor slams the door in his face, turns around, and stops.

"Connor," comes Oliver's muffled voice.

Connor yanks the door open.  He stands straight, chest up and heaving, hands at his side and lips trembling.  He surveys Oliver and breathes through his nose trying to keep the inevitable hyperventilation at bay.

Slow and calculated, Oliver steps inside and shuts the door behind him.  Connor shuffles backward and folds his arms, not daring to look at Oliver.  With solemn eyes and a lethargic gait, Oliver crosses the room and settles himself on the couch.  Connor stays put until Oliver pats the cushion next to him and says, "Sit down, Connor."

His jaw tightens.  The floor underneath him feels cold on his bare feet, his couch hard and uninviting.  He wants to bolt, but he knows that would only create more trouble, and honestly Connor can't stomach anymore of the lies that keep pouring from his mouth.

When Oliver turns to look at him, Connor expects him to start scolding, reprimanding, letting out all of his disappointment, but instead, he pulls Connor into a tight hug.  Connor remains stiff, terrified of letting himself feel anything.

When he pulls back, Oliver asks, "Why?"

Connor sighs.  "Oliver, listen - I wasn't trying to kill myself."

Oliver's eyes go wide, and immediately Connor knows he's made a mistake.  "I wasn't implying that at all, Connor - why?  Why would you - ?"

Blood rushes to Connor's head and his stomach rolls.  "Oh, God - "

"Connor?"

He shakes his head.

"Connor, would you?" Oliver whispers.  "Do you want to - to kill yourself?"

Connor blinks several times and takes long, deep breaths, but then he's collapsing in Oliver's arms sobbing over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry, Oliver.   I want to die.  I want to die.  I want to die _so badly_."

"Connor - "

"I fucked up - I fucked up so much.  I ruined us, I ruined us and the guy I cheated on you with?  He killed himself.  He killed himself, Oliver, because of _me_.  I keep seeing him falling out of that window and Frank not getting there in time, and then his broken body on the ground - all that blood.  And I can't - I can't keep up at work, and I'm letting everyone down, and that's all I do, that's all I ever do, Oliver.  I let everyone down and I ruin lives, and I should die.  I deserve to die.  I _want_ to die.  I want to _kill myself_."

"Connor, shh - "

"Please, Oliver.  Just kill me, _kill me_.  Kill me so I don't have to do it myself."

Oliver just holds him and whispers back, "I'm here, Connor.  I'm right here, and I'm not leaving."


End file.
